


Rückfall

by SpicyReyes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, M/M, Relapse, Seriously Dark, Sherlock Holmes Cries, Suicidal Thoughts, implied major character death, sherlock is not in a good place, shouting doesn't help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:52:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rückfall; German; n. - a repeat of an offense, a relapse </p><p>Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson with all his being. Admitting it out loud breaks him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rückfall

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a drabble really   
> i just like to hurt sherlock's feelings ? I'm not even sorry whoops

“The two people who love you most in this world,” had stuck in Sherlock’s throat, because he hadn’t meant to say it. It had only been on the first set of notecards, scrapped immediately. Too much sentiment. 

Too much truth. 

And with the way Mary lied, about who she was and what she did, about everything, he was perhaps the one who loved him most in the world by himself. 

Which is why when it came down to it, he didn’t hesitate. 

He pulled the trigger on Magnussen. He didn’t so much as blink.

Some would say it was rage. Some, bloodlust. Some, simple insurance.

Sherlock refused to admit what he knew it to be, what Mycroft knew it to be - hell, even Lestrade knew. 

Love. 

Sherlock loved, and he loved, and he loved more. He loved until every fiber of his being cried with it. Loved till he ached. Loved until there was a whole in his chest where he’d ripped out his own heart and handed it over, emptied his veins and his lungs and all but his mind in pursuit of the joy and longevity of John Watson. 

And so he’d walked to the plane, to his own death, with steady hands, despite the amount of drugs flowing through his system. Because they were just filler, really. Just enough to get him to the safety and privacy of the plane before he broke down, because he’d never see John Watson again.

He’d gladly die. He’d just rather his last look at John be looking upon his smile. 

And so he goes to his grave with a joke. That grin gets him up the steps, into his seat, relaxed and breathing easy as the high settles in. 

But Moriarty doesn’t let him go quietly into the night. 

He hallucinates his way through a number of deductions, and determines James Moriarty is dead. Very dead, not coming back, not for anything.

No matter how much  _ someone  _ wants him to. 

But right now, he has bigger things to worry about. 

Mainly, his brother, and  _ fucking Lestrade.  _

 

They search his whole flat, and Sherlock lets them. They find nothing, just like Sherlock knew they wouldn’t - he hadn’t bothered to leave anything, just taken it all. He told them as much, and they exchanged one of those  _ looks,  _ those  _ poor Sherlock  _ looks that Sherlock despised. He didn’t need sympathy. He didn’t need  _ pity.  _

He needed John.

He needed tea.

He made a cup, drank a sip, and promptly abandoned the cup on the table, never to be touched again. 

It wasn’t what he wanted.

And, well, wasn’t that a metaphor for his whole life?

 

“You can’t do this to yourself,” Lestrade said, popping the constricting band off of Sherlock’s arm from where they’d taken a blood sample. 

They were running all sorts of tests on him. Sherlock really didn’t care enough to think about what they were looking for. 

Anyone with a brain could deduce what was wrong with Sherlock. 

_ Mental illness,  _ Sherlock had learned, was very easy to detect if you knew what to look for, and impossible to see if you didn’t. 

Sherlock loved with all his heart, when he loved at all, and he loved John Watson more than anything. So much it burned its way through him, made him wish he’d landed on pavement when he lept from Bart’s roof, makes him almost want to try again. Redo, redo, redo. He needed a second chance. 

He shook his head, and waved Molly and Lestrade off. Their fussing was driving him insane. He tuned them out, retreating to his mind, finding solace in fantasies of better days. He dreamt of innocent things, like petting a big red-furred dog or holding hands with someone with gun calluses. 

He didn’t realize he’d been crying until he heard Molly choke out a sob as well. 

 

Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft. Three people who loved him with their whole hearts - and Sherlock Holmes was falling apart before their very eyes, and there wasn’t a damned thing they could do.

 

John came ‘round a month into Sherlock’s forced rehabilitation, where he’d gotten blood tests biweekly from Molly and daily drop-ins from his brother and favorite DI. 

He’d taken one look at Sherlock’s distressed state and shouted at him for getting back on drugs in the first place, because  _ look at you, you’re clearly strung out, this is what happens when you relapse, Sherlock.  _

Sherlock just let him yell.

He  _ was  _ strung out, missing his fix, but cocaine and heroin had nothing on John Watson. 

 

The charges of murder do not go away, and it somehow leaks that he’s on drugs as well, and the country is calling for his redemption, yet Sherlock Holmes offers no defense.    
When the case of Moriarty’s reappearance is solved, Sherlock doesn’t bother to say goodbye. 

He takes 12mg of heroin, snorts a line of cocaine, and takes a nap. 

 

“The man you have saved,” at some point, became “the man you have damned.” 

**Author's Note:**

> follow my sherlock rp blog @ borderlineholmes.tumblr.com


End file.
